The morning air in the Sun Palace kitchen carried the rich scent of freshly roasted coffee and melting butter.

  Sunlight slipped through the tall windows, illuminating lazy swirls of dust above the long wooden table where Mother Rosa was reviewing the supply ledger.

  Mateo lingered for a moment at the doorway, letting himself be observed—or rather, acknowledged without being seen.

  Mother Rosa was an institution unto herself. She had to be nearing fifty, yet her posture remained straight and elegant, like a flamenco dancer who had never lost her balance.

  Her black hair, tied into a tight bun, had only recently surrendered a few strands of gray at the temples. Her hazel eyes were sharp enough to make a young soldier stiffen under a single glance.

  She didn’t look up.

  “You could stand there until lunchtime, Young Master,” she said calmly, “but the sugar won’t inventory itself.”

  Mateo smiled and stepped inside. “As impressive as ever, Mother Rosa. Your senses are sharper than the guards’.”

  “I have ears for men’s footsteps, ears for women’s footsteps,” she replied dryly, “and ears for footsteps that carry intent.” Only then did she glance up, sweeping him with a quick, thorough look. “And yours this morning,” she added, “carry business. Not the usual kind.”

  There was no point pretending otherwise.

  “I need to strengthen this house,” Mateo said. “Not just with more guards—but with more eyes and ears. Natural ones.”

  Mother Rosa set down her pen and folded her hands atop the table. “You want more servants.”

  “I want to recruit servants,” Mateo corrected. “Special ones. Under your supervision and training.”

  “Special servants.” She repeated the phrase flatly. “They’ll serve tea while memorizing conversation patterns? Fold sheets while noting guests’ luggage? Is that what you’re suggesting?”

  “Exactly.”

  She clicked her tongue—a short, sharp sound heavy with meaning. “Foolish.”

  Mateo didn’t bristle. He walked closer, picked an apple from the basket, and sat across from her. “Why foolish?”

  “Because eyes that are ordered to watch,” she said quietly, dangerously, “are the first to go blind.” She leaned forward. “A good servant does not observe. They know. They know the Prussi ambassador prefers honey in his oatmeal. They know his aide is always nervous and drops his spoon. That knowledge comes from repetition. From genuine service. Not from secret instructions whispered in some basement.”

  “And what if I need that knowledge systematically?” Mateo countered. “What if I need to know not just food preferences, but whether a guest asks too many questions about Father’s schedule? Or whether a member of the palace staff suddenly receives visits from strangers?”

  Silence fell. Her gaze sharpened, dissecting his face like a surgeon’s blade.

  “This isn’t about comfort anymore,” she said slowly. “Not even ordinary security. This is intelligence. Inside your own home.”

  “This house is the heart of the Republic,” Mateo replied evenly. “What happens here decides the fate of twenty million people. Yes—I need intelligence. But I need it wrapped in flawless hospitality and efficiency. I need someone who can train true servants, and also know what must be recorded—and when to report.” He met her eyes.

  “Only you can do that.”

  She exhaled, long and heavy. For the first time, the iron mask cracked, revealing a fatigue that ran deep with age and history.

  “I have served this Republic since its first days of independence,” she murmured. “I’ve seen people come and go. I’ve seen conspiracies, love, and death. And I always believed one thing—” She looked around the kitchen. “A home should be a refuge. Not another battlefield.”

  “Without this,” Mateo said softly but firmly, “there may soon be no home left to protect.” He hesitated, then continued. “Isabella. Eleanor. They walk these corridors. They laugh in the gardens. Their safety rests on ten guards who can be bribed—or killed.” He paused.

  “I want to build an invisible fortress around them. And you would be the architect of its outermost layer—the layer that looks entirely ordinary.”

  For a single second, Mother Rosa’s hardened eyes softened.

  “Eleanor still sneaks into the kitchen at night for leftover cheesecake,” she muttered. “And Isabella… she thinks too much. She hardly sleeps.” Her voice dropped. “They’re like my own grandchildren.” Then she looked back at Mateo. “And you,” she said quietly. “You want to turn their home into a spider’s nest. With yourself at the center, pulling every thread.”

  “Better that I pull the threads,” Mateo replied, “than someone else. And better that the threads belong to us.”

  Silence again. The stove hissed softly. The wall clock ticked.

  Finally, Mother Rosa nodded once. Hard. Not obedience—agreement.

  “Very well,” she said. “But on my terms.” She raised one finger. “First. I choose them. No agents. No thugs. I find people with clear eyes and diligent hands.” A second finger. “Second. No daily ‘reports.’ I decide what matters—and when you need to know.” A third finger, crooked, pointing straight at him. “And third—you will never interrogate them, directly or indirectly, without my permission. They answer to me first. Only then to your… dark little mission.”

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  “That’s the only way this works.”

  Mateo smiled—this time, genuinely—and dipped his head. “Agreed. All of it.”

  “Good. Now leave,” she said briskly.

  “I have a shopping list to review. And you have other matters to attend to.”

  ***

  Disguise was more than a change of clothes. It was a transformation.

  Mateo, dressed in a simple cream linen shirt and worn trousers, was no longer the President’s son, nor the architect of Project Dualis.

  He was just Santiago, strolling through the city. Except—his steps were too light. His gaze lingered too long, too analytical. And around him, two shadows moved in near-perfect synchronization.

  Leo—a sergeant with protruding ears and a distinctive sway to his walk. Clara—a woman with an unremarkable face and a shopping bag always in her right hand.

  They were the first Blindaje candidates under Mendoza’s command. Still prototypes. Still untested. Their orders were simple: Don’t look like bodyguards. Look like citizens. And if a threat appears—neutralize it before Mateo finishes his next breath.

  Caraccas breathed unevenly. They began at Plaza de la República.

  Once, crowds had gathered here to hear Mendez’s fiery speeches. Later, they came to witness his fall.

  Now, the plaza was filled with temporary stalls—some selling vegetables, others hawking cheap souvenirs shaped like the Republic’s flag.

  “Red Sun Amulets! For protection and good fortune!” shouted an elderly woman selling tin charms.

  “President portraits! Family portraits! Bring blessings to your home!” cried another vendor, waving low-quality prints of Ricardo Guerrero, Sofia smiling beside him—and yes, Mateo and his sister in the background, their faces slightly warped by poor printing.

  Blessings, Mateo thought bitterly. If only they knew.

  He bought oranges from an old vendor.

  “How’s business?” he asked casually.

  The man shrugged, eyes cautious. “We eat. Better than during El Loco’s time,” he whispered, referring to Mendez. “But flour’s expensive. Oil’s scarce. They say it’s because of a blockade—who knows who’s blocking whom.”

  “A blockade?” Mateo asked.

  The man shrugged again. “Ports are jammed. That’s what people say.”

  And just like that, the conversation ended. Mateo peeled the orange, the sharp citrus bursting on his tongue. Field reports from Vargas had spoken of “logistical restructuring.”

  Blockade was a more honest word—and a more dangerous one.

  Who was responsible? Remnants of Mendez’s supporters? Or foreign powers uneasy with the Republic of Venez rising again?

  They moved toward the poorer market behind the Sun Shrine. The smells grew heavier—salted fish, sweat, urine, warm spices. The noise rougher. Louder.

  Here, hope no longer flickered. Only exhaustion and vigilance remained.

  In one corner, a group of young men listened to a speaker—a tattooed man with a crude image of a torn eagle on his arm. A symbol once used by a pro-Mendez underground gang.

  Mateo slowed, pretending to tie his shoe.

  “They call this a revolution?” the man sneered. “Look around! Bread costs double. No jobs. They drink imported wine in the Palace while our children dig through trash! That’s not a revolution. That’s just changing masters!”

  “But Mendez was worse,” another youth protested weakly.

  “Mendez is dead,” the man snapped. “The problem isn’t who was in power—it’s who is now. And they’re doing nothing for us!”

  Leo had already shifted position—standing with his back to Mateo, posture taut. Clara vanished into a narrow alley opposite.

  The anger was real. And it was volatile. This wasn’t “economic dissatisfaction.” This was gunpowder.

  Mateo moved on.

  At another stall, a young mother argued desperately over the price of rice. “It was half this price last week!”

  “Not my fault,” the shopkeeper replied tiredly. “Trucks from the countryside don’t arrive. The ones that do pay ‘road taxes’ to armed men. Pay—or they burn the truck.”

  Road taxes. Organized extortion. A state losing its monopoly on violence.

  Damn it.

  A sudden shout cut through the noise.

  “Thief! Stop him!” A scrawny teenager bolted through the crowd, wallet in hand.

  Leo moved. A foot extended—subtle, precise. The boy stumbled and hit the ground. The wallet flew free. Leo helped him up, gripping his arm firmly. “Watch where you’re going, kid,” Leo murmured.

  Their eyes met. Fear flashed. The boy twisted free and vanished into the crowd before the owner arrived.

  Quick hands, Mateo thought. Faster judgment. Arresting him would’ve caused a scene. Letting him go sent a different message. Leo chose a third option: You are seen.

  Clara reappeared at Mateo’s side. “All normal?” she whispered.

  “Normal,” Mateo replied.

  They left the market.

  Later, from the bridge over the Guairre River, Mateo saw it.

  A new slum.

  Shacks of scrap metal and wood. Thin smoke rising. Stench of waste and despair. Displaced people. Invisible in official reports.

  A boy—seven, maybe eight—sat at the roadside, staring at the murky water. No toy. No expression. Just exhaustion carved into him.

  Mateo stopped.

  He crouched, offering coins. The boy took them without gratitude or suspicion. Just acceptance.

  “Where’s your mother?” Mateo asked softly.

  “Looking for food.”

  “Where are you from?”

  “The south. There was fighting. Our house burned.”

  There were no tears. Only facts.

  Mateo stood, suddenly feeling nauseous. He could plan elite units, manipulate diplomatic meetings, read reports filled with percentages and policies. But in the face of this destruction, all of it felt like a house of cards.

  Leo had moved closer, his stance protective. Clara stared toward the shacks, her eyes calculating potential threats.

  “This isn’t in the reports,” Mateo muttered to Clara.

  “The reports come from district offices,” Clara replied flatly. “They may not consider this a district.”

  Or, Mateo thought bitterly, they deliberately didn’t report it. So the numbers would look good. So the false calm of Plaza de la República could pass for reality.

  Bastards!

  The return journey to the Palace passed in heavy silence. Their disguises were removed at the small gate.

  Expensive suits replaced linen clothes. But the smell of the market, the sound of anger, and the empty eyes of that boy clung to him—more stubborn than road dust.

  He stood on the balcony of his chamber, gazing at the city as it began to bathe in golden dusk. From here, Caraccass looked beautiful. Peaceful. A tapestry of lights being rebuilt.

  But he had seen the cracks in that tapestry. Cracks that could split wide open if not stitched carefully.

  And stitching them would require more than just Sombra and Blindaje. It would require bread, jobs, and hope.

  The plan he had discussed that morning with Mother Rosa suddenly felt very small. Very internal. The outside world was cracking, and while he had been busy reinforcing the palace windows, the foundation of the entire building might be collapsing.

  He drew a deep breath, the night air growing cold and burning his lungs. There was no time to feel overwhelmed. There was only data.

  And today’s data was clear: Vargas, with his brutal cleansing approach, was likely seeing the same symptoms—anger, poverty, thuggery—and was preparing his solution: more repression.

  Mateo had to offer a different solution. Not just security, but stability. Not just protection for his family, but a glimmer of hope for the boy by the riverbank.

  He had done many dirty things so far for his family—and now for his country as well.

  His task had just grown larger. And time, as shown by that boy’s eyes, kept moving forward without caring.

  He turned away from the balcony and walked to his desk. A letter from Felix was waiting—an initial plan for the Sombra training facility. There were notes from Mendoza on the design of Blindaje uniforms.

  The light in his window stayed on late into the night. Outside, loyal shadows stood guard. And in the city below, those cracks—still invisible to most—waited either to be mended, or to split wide open.

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